


Post Mortem

by Raindropsonwhiskers



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Other, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Regeneration, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhappy Ending, Whump, kind of :), seriously this is. sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28314399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raindropsonwhiskers/pseuds/Raindropsonwhiskers
Summary: The Doctor pulls the trigger, and the aftermath isn't pretty.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Post Mortem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fluffysfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/gifts).



> This is for Fluffy, lovingly crafted to inflict as much sadness as possible in retaliation for all the emotional pain he's caused. Merry Christmas!

The Doctor wakes up, and everything hurts. They hadn't expected that. Either part of it, really; the waking or the overwhelming, all-encompassing aching. After they had pulled the trigger, they had expected that to be the end of it. No more waking, no more pain. No more Doctor.

 _Pulled the trigger_ \- had they? Everything before waking up is a bit fuzzy, but they think that they remember a trigger. A bomb, a grenade, some kind of explosive that was meant to kill everything. They were going to die too, but they had been willing to make that sacrifice in order to stop… something. Some _one._

If only they could remember who.

Someone important, surely. Evil, almost certainly. They wouldn't have done what they did if they'd had any other choice, so whoever it was must have been threatening the world, the _universe._ Yes, that sounds about right. Threatening to conquer the universe with- The thought is gone.

With a groan - a new pitch to their voice, this time around, a little lower than before - the Doctor decides to try opening their eyes, seeing if that helps them remember. They look, and see ceiling. Not particularly interesting ceiling, if they're being honest, but it feels familiar. Like an itch at the back of their brains, a memory just out of reach.

They try sitting up, and immediately regret it as every muscle in this new body protests at once. For the sake of their sanity, if they have any, they decide to give up for a little and try to figure things out while laying on the floor.

The floor, the floor, maybe there's something interesting about the floor. Curious, they run one twinging finger along the cold stone and then lift it, arm burning like they've torn something in it, to their mouth. They stick out their tongue and lick the offending digit. It tastes like dust and rock and metal, and not much else. Not very helpful, and now their mouth is dry and tastes like dust.

Right. Start at the end and work backwards, since they can't start at the beginning. They've regenerated, clearly, so they must have died. The bomb worked, but it wasn't enough to kill them - something about that thought makes their stomach churn, but they can't pinpoint _what,_ so they resolve to go back to it later. Where did they get the bomb?

Cybermen, their mind supplies, and if they could, they would whoop for joy. It's not much, but it's a start. They stole the bomb from some Cybermen, yes, that sounds about right. Cybermen working with… _damn it,_ it's gone again.

Okay, fine, they can work around that. Cybermen from _where?_ Where are they right now, that tastes of dust and metal and ancient stone? A familiar place, so familiar. Almost as if they grew up there, or- yes! Gallifrey. They're on Gallifrey. The Cybermen were on Gallifrey.

That makes them pause; that should be impossible. Gallifrey is protected, Gallifrey is tucked in a little pocket dimension all on its lonesome that no one else can get to. So how on Earth - at least they remember Earth - did Cybermen get on Gallifrey?

Answer: someone must have helped them. The Doctor groans at their own thoughts. They'd already figured _that_ out. But who would be foolish enough to…

Oh. _O._ They remember now. The Boundary, the Master, every secret deep in the Matrix and the horrid perversions of dead Time Lords wrapped in Cyberman shells and the Death Particle and no other choice but to use it. They laugh, short and bitter and choking on the dust of their people. That would be why they feel so sore, then.

It takes a moment, one long and frozen moment, for the implications of all of that to settle in properly. When they do, the Doctor shoots upright despite the burning of their muscles, eyes huge and panicked. They see the metal casing of those awful, nightmarish Cybermasters, they see the crumbling ruins of their home, they see the setting of twin suns through the gap of a missing wall. They see everything, it seems, except the Master.

No. No, no, no, no. He's not dead, surely, not really. He escaped somehow, or tricked them, or found some way to survive certain death - it wouldn't be the first time. He's alive, they're sure of it. Just… not on Gallifrey anymore. Yes, that must be it. That _has_ to be it. They'll just find a way off this ruined planet, and then they'll find him. Or he'll find them, just like he always has.

Standing seems to be a bit too tall of an order for them to manage at the moment, so they settle for shuffling on battered knees to the center of the dias they're on, looking for any sign of the Master. Not that they find any. Not that they expect to. He would hardly make things easy for them, after all. It'll be a scavenger hunt, a trail of clever clues hidden among the stars.

Their fingers linger on the glowing outline of where the paralysis field had been, just for a moment. Just enough to memorize the feeling of the slight groove in the floor, the transition from the stone to the smoothness of glass. Well, not _really_ glass, but the Gallifreyan equivalent. If they try, they can almost feel a psychic remnant from when they'd been trapped there, from when the Master had shown them the deepest, darkest secrets of Time Lord history. It feels like rage and pain, and makes them wince slightly at the intensity of it.

Slowly, they make their way to the edge, shifting so that their legs dangle off the side. Their feet more than easily touch the ground like this; they're pretty sure they've got an inch or two on their last body. They never thought to miss being tall until they weren't.

They're probably taller than the Master again, now. He'll hate that, they're sure of it. He's always hated when he's shorter than them. Having that scant three centimeters of height compared to who they used to be must have delighted him. They'll have to compare, once they find him.

Like this, the Doctor is able to swing themself up onto their shaky, exhausted legs. It hurts - what else is new? - but it's far more efficient. They walk, slow and still adjusting, to the remnants of the Cybermasters. The weight of the metal is enough to keep the casings upright as long as nothing touches them, but a sharp prod to the chest easily sends one of the abominations clanging and clattering to the ground. Harsh sound echoes, painfully loud, off of broken walls, but the Doctor doesn't flinch.

They fumble in their pocket for their sonic, and realize as they do that their coat is far too short on them now. The sleeves stop a handful of centimeters up their forearms, pale fabric bunching awkwardly around arms that no longer fit it. It's been a long time since their clothing hasn't been too big on them after a regeneration. But that's a matter to deal with once they get off of Gallifrey.

What were they doing again? Ah, yes, sonic. They pull it out, point it at the toppled Cybermaster at their feet, and watch as the chestplate swings open on tiny hinges. The inside is empty, devoid of any sign of life - well, organic material - that might have once been in it. So, the Death Particle doesn't leave corpses.

A tiny shred of panic stings at the back of their mind, pointing out that maybe they were wrong, maybe the Master _is_ dead. They squish it, ignore it, and walk out of the Matrix chamber. The engineering chambers are a few levels below, hopefully mostly intact despite the destruction. Maybe they can rig up something there.

When they find the Master again, the Doctor resolves to slap him. Not only had he destroyed the engineering chambers, but the single somewhat functional one they had managed to unearth had been converted into a twisted cold storage for the Time Lord bodies that he'd… well, converted.

They have to throw up in a corner after seeing _that._ Maybe this body just has a weak stomach; they know they've seen much worse than the gristly remains in the chamber, worse than the golden remnants of regeneration energy that cling to the timelines. They're still quick to leave again, once they can stand.

Any TARDIS they manage to find will be dead, they're sure of it. But there just might be a way to cannibalize the mechanisms from a few to make a functional teleport. With a sigh, the Doctor pulls out their sonic once more and scans for TARDISes.

One pings far closer than they would have expected, only a few levels above them and a little to their left. They take a wobbly, off-kilter step down the corridor and then collapse.

 _Ah,_ they think. _Well, bound to hit my limit eventually._

It's not as though they're going to find anywhere better to pass out within the small range they can walk, so the Doctor lays down fully on the floor and lets their eyes shut. Sleep takes them quickly, a soothing, empty blackness.

Once they wake up, more energized if not less sore, they go TARDIS-hunting. Up twisting, winding stairs etched into their memory even millennia after leaving Gallifrey, back much the way they came down from the Matrix chamber. Exactly the way that they came down, now that they think of it.

Their sonic leads them straight to the chamber, to the one column not in rubble. Gentle, they press one finger against the slightly jagged edge along one vertical ridge, and a section of the column slides inward to let them inside. An automatic process, simple mechanical reflexes, even for a dead TARDIS.

It still feels wrong, like graverobbing or mutilating a corpse. TARDISes aren't meant to be lifeless machines like this. They did this to the poor thing, and the guilt seeps into their bones. Stepping over the threshold almost makes them throw up again.

The interior is familiar. _Too_ familiar, for only having seen it the one time. Their first, split-second reaction of a thought is to wonder why the Master never bothered to change it after O. The next thought, riding on the tails of the first, is wondering why he didn't use this TARDIS to escape when he left.

If he left.

The Doctor shakes their head, ignoring how it makes their vision swim slightly; the Master _must_ have escaped. This TARDIS was probably just too far away, so he used some kind of backup plan. Obviously.

They take a step towards the console, through the cozy clutter of never-was-O's fake apartment, and the warm, comforting smell of the place hits them like a truck. Cinnamon and woodsmoke and sunlight, just like it had been that night in the Outback. Just like it would always be, now that this TARDIS is dead and locked into this configuration for all eternity.

That sobering thought tears them out of any reminiscing they might have gotten caught in. With a sigh, the Doctor picks their way over to the console, readying themself to tear out the guts of the thing. Though it won't make any difference, they whisper an apology to the TARDIS, and then get to work.

Without their permission, their mind wanders as they go, the repetitive process of stripping wires and circuit boards from the console only occupying their hands. That's the last thing the Doctor wants, really - letting their thoughts go where they please means that, sooner or later, those thoughts are going to land on the topic of the Master.

One such thought points out how unlikely it is that he escaped. He'd been so close to them when they'd pulled the trigger, so close that they could have reached out and touched him if they hadn't been so furious then, far too close to make any sort of escape in the brief delay between the press of the button and the tidal wave of obliteration. There had been no vortex manipulator on his wrist, no teleporter in his pocket - both of his hands had been where they could see, anyhow - no sneaky way out.

But surely he wouldn't just let them kill him. He never had in the past.

He'd never been so broken in the past, either. Just the memory of the desperate, destructive look in his eyes as he'd practically _begged_ them to pull the trigger makes them shudder. The Master had wanted death, death at their hands specifically. In retrospect, it's painfully clear how he had carefully, ever so carefully, orchestrated everything so that their only choice would be to kill them both.

But even in the face of all that evidence, the Doctor's mind rebels at the thought of the Master being truly dead. Throughout all their lives - or all the ones that they can remember, at least - he's been the one constant, their anchor if they got lost at sea. Their moral compass, in a way. Whatever the Master wanted, they almost always wanted the opposite, and they could… recalibrate, like that. He can't be _gone._ He can't have left them unmoored, untethered, _alone._ Not even he would be that cruel, not even after everything.

Unless he'd thought that the Death Particle would kill them for good, too. Unless he'd been so desperate to have them become equal again that he would take that bet.

Something snaps in the Doctor's hands, and they flinch, dropping fragments of metal to the floor. The spatial calibrator. They purse their lips and resign themself to the fate of having to go digging around another TARDIS corpse to find a replacement. Better to worry about that than continue their previous train of thought any further.

And yet. Even as they step delicately over the remnants of a lived lie, back out into the ruins of the only childhood they recall, they can't shake the feeling that they're truly alone for the first time in a very, very long time.

They step over the place where the paralysis field had been on their way across the Matrix chamber, and for some ridiculous reason, _that_ is what makes it hit them. It comes with all the swiftness and unflinching ruthlessness of a knife slipped between ribs; the realization that the Master is really, truly dead. No regeneration, no Chameleon Arch, no absurd cultish revivals, no way back. Just permanent, irreversible death.

When, exactly, they fall to their knees, the Doctor isn't sure. All they know is that the impact with the stone floor rattles up, up, up through their spine, a sharp pain that has nothing on the despair flooding their hearts.

The noise they make isn't quite a whimper, isn't quite a sob, but falls somewhere far lonelier and deeper. It chokes coming up their throat, and they almost wish it was a physical thing just so that it might kill them. Are they even far enough out from their regeneration for another death to stick? Does that even matter, for what they are?

Over their long, long lives, the Doctor knows they've talked about the pain of immortality before. How much it hurts, knowing that you'll outlive everyone you love; how lonely you start to get once you realize you're the only thing in the universe that could see it born and burn, along with everything in it. None of that had been quite true. They'd always had the Master, always had someone to experience it all with, even if on opposite sides. Never once had they been truly lonely - even after the War, even sure as they were that every other Time Lord was dead, some tiny part of them had been sure the Master was still out there.

Though it hurts, they reach their mind out to that faint, furious telepathic imprint that he had left. It burns against their thoughts, like pressing their hand to a glowing burner, but they push through the pain just to feel a hint of the Master's presence. If he's alive - and stars, even now they can't help but hope - then maybe it'll be enough to trace back to him.

The Doctor reaches further, praying to any entity that might be listening for any kind of sign. A flicker, no matter how tiny, of the Master's mind, or something they can use to locate him. Any guiding star in the black hole abyss of thoughtspace that they look into.

For a brief, wonderful moment, they see something. It's faint, no more than a candle compared to the darkness, but it's enough to make their hearts _soar._ They reach out, slow and steady enough so as not to damage it, and brush the edge of their mind along it, hoping against all logic that maybe-

The light crumbles before they can even tell if it's really the Master, breaking apart at the first touch of their mind. And then, as if it had never been there, they're alone in the dark. Only their mind and the emptiness of the knowledge that any chance of the Master surviving just broke apart in their hands.

It's a long, long time before the Doctor gets up off the dias, before they move from the last place the Master stood, before they can bear to tear their mind away from the burning of the telepathic imprint he'd left. They just kneel there, running over every detail of the moments before their regeneration over and over, wondering what they could have done differently. If they'd just refused to pull the trigger, maybe… maybe the universe would be conquered at his hand, but at least he would still be alive.

When they do finally stand, not bothering to rub the dampness of tears from their cheeks, the Doctor walks numbly to the next nearest TARDIS. There's no point in getting off of Gallifrey, not any more, but they need _something_ to do, lest the grief gnawing at their hearts overtake them entirely. Lest they just give up and lay there in the Matrix chamber, waiting for starvation to kill them and hoping that it sticks.

The walk to the TARDIS is a slow one, though it's hardly as if they're on a deadline. Every few steps, they find themself distracted by something; a piece of rubble from a wall they remember, the gouged and cracked streets they used to run down. Anything that even tangentially reminds them of him, which is nearly everything. They'd grown up two halves of a whole, and it's impossible to detangle the choking threads of his ghost from their own past.

He'd love to know that, wouldn't he? That he's so much a part of them they can never be free of him. That it's only worse now that he's…

The TARDIS they find is disguised as a tree. Under any other circumstances, that wouldn't have stood out, but in this desolate place, devoid of any life but for their own, the illusion of nature might as well be a flashing neon sign. Just as the Master's TARDIS had, this one opens too smoothly for the Doctor as they find the door.

They don't linger, this time, simply grabbing the spatial calibrator from beneath the smooth white console and leaving quickly. This dead ship holds no memories for them, no reason to stay any longer than they must.

Going back to the Panopticon, back to the Matrix chamber, is a pointless gesture, but the Doctor does it anyway. They tell themself that it's not so they can feel the ghost of the Master's mind again, though they know they're lying. After all, as soon as they step into the chamber, they're reaching out for the spectre's presence, the glowing fury that is worth the pain just to pretend it's really him.

It isn't. Of course it isn't. No paltry telepathic imprint, accidental and only still there because of the strength of the Master's emotions, could come close to the beauty and fullness of his mind. But they can pretend - for a short, bittersweet moment - that it is.

"I'm sorry, Koschei," they whisper. Their first proper words, this time around. Fitting, they think; they never apologized to him last time. Not that it matters now.

Their calibration of the jerry rigged teleport is haphazard and reckless at best. They no longer care where or when they end up, whether it's the void of space or a bustling planet. A part of them almost hopes that they'll end up in the heart of a star, and that _that,_ at least, will be enough to end them.

When the time comes to press the button, though, the Doctor doesn't. Thumb hovering over the button - oh so much like it had the trigger for the Death Particle - they freeze. Why bother leaving Gallifrey, when every place they could end up will just taste like its dust? Why bother escaping the ghost of the Master that lingers in this room, when he'll haunt them until the day they finally die anyway? They might as well just stay here, in this room, until his psychic imprint and the fires and their life all fade to nothing.

The Doctor lays down on the cold floor, sets the teleport aside, and stares up at the dull ceiling.

It takes a while - the Doctor didn't bother to keep track, but it can't have been as long as it felt, since they have yet to regenerate from hunger - for the last fragment of the Master's emotions to disappear entirely. The process is more of a slow slide to nothingness than a quick switch from one state to the other; intense emotions fading to little more than an impression of feeling.

Feeling the rage burn against their mind was painful, of course, but the loneliness creeping inexorably closer is worse. The pain was worth it to cling to the one bit of the Master that they still had. No corpse to burn, no presence in the Matrix - not that the Doctor wants to ever, _ever_ enter the Matrix again - and the only things in their rotting TARDIS the possessions of a lie. The imprint is the closest thing they have to a memorial, to a keepsake.

And then, so gradually that the Doctor could pretend that they didn't know it was coming, even that is gone.

Their fingers still where they run over the glass inlay on the floor for the thousandth time. They blink their eyes open, looking up at the ceiling they've seen so often it might as well be ingrained into their retinas. If they had anything left in them but aching emptiness, they might cry. Their chest aches enough to, hearts wrenching as if it's a new pain and not something they've had far too long to accustom themself to. But after such a long time laying there, nothing to do but hold the Master's last telepathic remains close and hate themself, they don't have any tears left to give.

For another moment, they lay there deliberating. Staying and fading away is tempting, but they don't think they can bear to see more of that same ceiling, to run their fingers over the same patch of stone any longer. And they don't deserve such a peaceful death. After everything they've done, after murdering the only person who was ever close enough to them to truly know them, they don't deserve to waste the rest of their infinite life with their mind faded into nothingness. No dulled pain for them; they deserve to feel it as sharp as the renewed grief in their gut.

The Doctor reaches to their side, hoping that the teleport they built however long ago is still within arm's reach. Thankfully, it is; they weren't sure that they could manage to sit up and reach it.

The old coordinates were randomly, recklessly chosen; a tiny planet in a tiny solar system, utterly unoccupied. But that's not enough. It's not _enough._ Their fingers are terribly steady, perfectly confident, as they pick out the coordinates for the heart of the longest-lived star they can think of.

Then, with a numbness in their hearts and an aching hope that it'll be enough to kill them, the Doctor pushes the button.


End file.
